


and you're trying not to tell him

by lymricks



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-10-02 18:02:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20391253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lymricks/pseuds/lymricks
Summary: Whatever. They don’t talk, is the point, and Billy doesn’t need to finish all these big, deep, tragic sentences in his head. He needs to know if Harrington can’t swim.For lifeguard reasons. It’s his job, all right?





	and you're trying not to tell him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hoppnhorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoppnhorn/gifts).

“If you keep eating all this ice cream,” Max tells him on a Tuesday afternoon, when Indiana is so fucking humid he thinks he might drown if he breathes in too deeply, “You’re going to get fat.”

She undermines her point by taking another bite out of her ice cream sandwich. Billy shoots her a look. “Did I fucking tell you that you could open your goddamn mouth?” he asks.

Max shrugs. She’s less scared of his bite than she used to be and Billy thinks that fucking _bat_ has a lot to do with it. He’s about to tell her _exactly_ what she can do with her fucking attitude, like _walk home_, when a girl walks up to the counter, rings the bell, and Steve Harrington comes out. 

He distracts Billy from Max, from the irritation revving its engine in his bones. It was a lot easier to watch Steve Harrington in the winter, when he didn’t have a stupid hat on, when his shorts didn’t show Billy so much of his thighs. 

Under the table, Max kicks him. Billy turns to look at her, ready to fucking _snap_, but she’s looking at him with something a little too close to pity, and--it doesn’t really make him angrier. It just makes him glance back at Steve Harrington and sigh. “We should get home,” Billy mutters. “Dad said you had something to do with your mom.”

“_Neil_ isn’t the boss of me,” Max tells him, snide--she’s so _fucking_ snide--but she stands up anyway and they take the rest of their ice cream to go, because Neil might not be the boss of Max, exactly, but they both know he’s the boss of Billy.

She’s quiet on the ride home, until they’re almost at the house, and then she says, “I know we left California because he caught you with a boy,” and Billy almost drives the Camaro off the road he’s so goddamn surprised.

“You don’t know shit,” he tells her, once he’s steadied himself, the car. He tells himself that it’s the humidity that makes his palms sweat, even though he knows it doesn’t explain the tightness in his spine.

“I’m just saying,” Max says, “I could talk to Steve about--”

“You don’t know _shit_,” Billy snarls, low and angry, a lot like he sounded in the fall, when he made Max shrink back from him. It should gratify him that she flinches, now, but it doesn’t. There’s a heavy silence in the car. Billy could say that when he turns to Max and says, “Listen, it’s just complicated, and we don’t talk about it, okay?” it’s because he doesn’t want his dad to sense the tension and blame him, but it’s because he doesn’t like the way she holds herself in this space. She’s not a small person. He doesn’t want to make her small. He doesn’t _mean_ to, he just-- “We just can’t talk about it,” he corrects himself.

Max is a sucker for the moments when he’s honest. Her shoulders drop right away and she shoots him a grin, “Sure,” she says, and she finishes her ice cream sandwich. Billy envies her that ease. He wonders if she knows how much that honesty costs him.

And anyway, what he’s thinking as they walk into the house, after, as he’s cleaning up dishes from a meal he didn’t cook and didn’t eat, staring out the window--theoretically at the backyard, but really because he can track the reflection of his dad as he moves around behind him--none of this really fucking matters. Steve Harrington is a pipe dream, just like any boy that Billy Hargrove has ever liked.

It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t matter.

Billy’s not sure if that _he_ means Harrington or if it means himself. He’s had a little too much honesty today to really think deeply about it, anyway.

~

It’s the last week of June when Harrington starts coming to the pool, and the first thing that Billy notices is that he never goes anywhere near the water.

That’s a lie.

The first thing Billy notices is the dimples at the small of his back, but he also _definitely_ notices the water thing. Eventually. 

“Do you not know how to swim, asshole?” Billy finally asks.

Harrington looks at him with this crease between his brows. They haven’t actually spoken since the time Billy smashed a plate over his head. It’s safer that way, Billy figures. He’s guessing Harrington thinks the same thing--although for different reasons, probably something like _if I don’t talk to him I probably won’t get my ass beaten again_, although, honestly, Billy’s line of thinking is the same, it’s just a different person doing the--

Whatever. They don’t talk, is the point, and Billy doesn’t need to finish all these big, deep, tragic sentences in his head. He needs to know if Harrington can’t swim.

For lifeguard reasons. It’s his job, all right?

Only Harrington doesn’t answer him. He just kind of shrugs and walks away, and Billy _hates_ when people walk away from him, and he’s halfway to storming after him, to grabbing Harrington’s shoulder, to spinning him around and saying _I fucking asked you a question_, only across the pool, Billy can feel Max watching him.

And he’d like to say that he lets Harrington turn and walk away because of that bat, but he’s been doing a lot of lying today, in his head, and so he knows that’s not the reason he lets Harrington walk away from him, not even a little bit, not at all.

And Billy was ready to drop it, he _was_, except Harrington keeps fucking _coming back to the pool_ in these tiny fucking swim shorts, and not going in the water. As the summer creeps on, as the days get longer, Harrington’s shoulders start to freckle. He already had this constellation of marks on his body, some scars, some natural, that Billy’s spent a lot of fucking time looking at, but now he’s got _freckles_ and _sunburns_ and it’s driving Billy nuts.

He stays away, though, because he told Max they _can’t_ talk about it, and he meant that, and anyway, he only has to talk to Harrington if he’s drowning.

And then one day, he is.

It’s not at the pool, though. It’s at the quarry, and everyone is drunk except for Billy, because Harrington’s around, and he’s not stupid enough to get drunk around Harrington. That’s what got him to Hawkins, Indiana: getting drunk, crossing a line, breaking all those carefully set rules his dad had given him once, when he sat Billy down on the couch and explained that a man like him wouldn’t have a son like that. 

So Billy isn’t drunk when he’s watching a couple of dumb, drunk, high school graduates pushing a boat out onto the water. He’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to boat. He’s not sure why, but he really thinks they’re crossing a fucking _line_ here. It doesn’t matter, because he’s not doing the crossing. He’s sitting on the edge of all that, staring at them as they row their way out into darkness, and the boat wobbles, and then there’s a splash.

Billy tenses, instantly, and then there’s a drunk voice saying, “Steve?” saying, “Steve, man? Where the fuck did you go?” and there’s laughing, but what there isn’t, what he doesn’t hear, is Harrington _responding_, which means the splash was him, which means--

“Uh, Steve?” the drunk voices sound nervous now, and the music cuts, and everyone goes quiet enough to hear, “It’s not that deep. He’s probably _fine_,” to hear, “Yeah, but what if he hit his head? He’s _wasted_\--”

And then Billy’s in the water. He’s pretty sure you’re not supposed to swim here, either.

Billy knows from lifeguard training that it takes just sixty seconds for an adult to drown. He wonders if he’s moving fast enough. He wonders if he’s too late. He’s swimming, still trying to figure out where the _fuck_ to go when he kicks something under the water, and he knows it’s Harrington, and Billy grabs him and hauls him back to shore.

Billy hasn’t prayed in a long time, but as he drags a limp, unmoving Harrington onto the rocks and stones that constitute a beach, he thinks, _It hasn’t been sixty seconds, please, god, don’t let it have been sixty seconds_.

He rolls Harrington onto his side. His skin is cold from the water, but warming. It’s too dark for Billy to see what his mouth looks like, his face. He thumps him between the shoulders thinking, _no_, thinking _what the fuck_, thinking _how do you not know how to swim_?

And then Harrington coughs water and heaves, and Billy helps him cough it out, holding him by the shoulders, not rubbing his back or his sides like his instincts are screaming for him to do.

The people in the boat cheer and scream a toast, because they didn’t feel, maybe, for a second, the weight of a world with Steve Harrington’s lifeless body in it, or something. Billy doesn’t know. He doesn’t fucking feel like cheering.

“Thanks, man,” Harrington says, because they were right, and he is wasted, even as he’s coughing weakly.

Billy sighs. “Lemme take you home,” he mutters, keeps it terse and distant.

He’s a lifeguard. This is just his _job_.

Billy pushes to his feet and ignores everyone who gives him another round of applause. They’re wasted and they don’t understand what nearly happened. Billy doubts more than half of them will have any recollection of it in the morning. There’s some safety in that, in how drunk they are, in how drunk Harrington is when Billy hauls him to his feet.

He’s soaking wet and shivering, despite the warmth of the night. Billy helps him stumble away from the crowds. He can hear, as they trek back up the path to where their cars are all parked, Harrington’s teeth chattering.

“It’s not that fucking cold,” Billy tells him, irritated that he’s in this position. He’s got an arm around Harrington’s waist and Harrington leans into his side. Billy’s carrying most of his weight now.

“I can swim,” Harrington tells him.

“Yeah? Well maybe next time you fall out of a boat you should _try_ it.”

“I don’t like the water,” Harrington mumbles, and his head lulls a little. Billy can feel wet hair against his jaw, now. “Never know,” he adds, “Never--never know what’s at the bottom.”

“You can _see_ the bottom of the pool, dumbass,” Billy reminds him.

“S’what _you_ think,” Harrington answers, but he doesn’t give Billy any more information than that weird little statement. Billy _can_ see the bottom of the pool, thanks. So can everyone else who has ever been in a fucking pool.

He finally tells Harrington that, because what he doesn’t want to happen is for Harrington to fall asleep while they’re walking. Billy doesn’t want to have to _carry_ him the rest of the way up this path. It’s dark as shit and the sounds of the party are behind them. Billy’s not scared of the dark, but he’s also not a real big fan of all this Indiana _woods_ bullshit either.

“Barb couldn’t see it,” Harrington tells him. “Never know,” and that doesn’t make any sense, but it _does_ make Harrington shake a little harder, so Billy decides to change the subject.

“You’re just drunk,” he says. “I’m gonna get you home. You can sleep all this bullshit off.”

“Bullshit,” Harrington says, like he agrees, nodding his head. 

Billy rolls his eyes.

Both of them are breathing a little harder when they make it the rest of the way up to where they all parked. This seems unfair to Billy, who is--by now--mostly carrying Harrington, who keeps dragging his feet and stopping to look around every time he hears something in the trees. _He’s_ not the one working hard right now. _Billy_ is.

Billy yanks open the door to the Camaro and shoves Harrington into it. He’s still soaking wet, which is fucking annoying, but there’s not a lot Billy can do about it. He’d rolled around the idea of having Harrington get out of his clothes, but the possibility of someone seeing, of his dad hearing that he was driving around a guy with no shirt on makes his mouth go dry, so he doesn’t suggest it.

He’ll figure out how to dry shit out, or whatever. It’s more annoying, but it’s a hell of a lot safer. 

Harrington doesn’t talk a whole lot after he says _bullshit_. He lulls in the passenger’s seat. Sometimes he’s so still that Billy’s worried he’s died. Sometimes he’s squirmy. Billy’s spent months of his life, now, trying to get a read on Harrington. It makes a weird kind of sense that right now, in this moment, he still doesn’t have one, no matter how close they are--physically, at least. Harrington hasn’t even said thank you for Billy saving his _life_.

The house, when Billy pulls up in front of it, is huge and dark. He’d expected a parent he’d need to sneak by, by there’s not so much as a flicker of movement behind the curtains. Billy turns his head and Harrington is staring with eyes just as wide. “Harrington,” Billy says, and Harrington jumps.

He’s too drunk to look sheepish. He’s too drunk to hide that raw fear still frozen at the corners of his eyes, the tightness of his mouth. Harrington flushes and looks away. 

“I’ll help you get inside,” Billy offers, after a second. He pretends he doesn’t see the relief in Harrington’s shoulders. 

Billy pushes out of the car and walks around to the other side. When he gets Harrington out of the car, he’s slow, wobbling on his feet, and Billy has to fit an arm around his waist to help him up into the house.

This is a special kind of torture, Billy muses, too sober and too aware of every rise and fall of Harrington’s chest. He watches as Harrington fumbles to unlock the door, and then he helps him up the steps.

In Harrington’s bedroom, Billy doesn’t have time to catalog the details he wants to remember later, because Harrington tries to flop forward into the bed. Billy laughs. “You’re _soaking wet_,” he points out, rolling his eyes.

Harrington’s eyes get _huge_. “You can _laugh_?” he demands, looking so startled that it would be funny if he weren’t implying that Billy doesn’t _laugh_.

“I laugh all the fucking time,” Billy says, glaring. “Mostly at you.”

“No,” Harrington says. He shakes his head so fast he throws his balance and Billy has to grip his elbow to steady him. “That’s like--weird laughing. _Crazy_. This was like. Laughing. Happy. Funny.”

Billy’s stomach twists. “You’re just drunk,” he says. “Shut up, Harrington. You should get out of your clothes. You wanna sleep soaking wet? That’s on _you_,” and he’s almost back to the door, out into the hallway, but.

“Help me?” Harrington asks, quiet, and then, “You’re--you’re leaving?”

And Billy’s shoulders drop. He was so close. His hand is on the fucking doorknob. “I can stay,” he says, even though he can’t, really. 

The worst thing Billy’s ever done is a list that requires a _lot_ of careful ranking. He’s done a lot of bad shit. Mostly to people and mostly he’s not proud of it. He didn’t always know, when he was younger, how to feed the anger in his belly with anything other than violence. His dad always took his anger out on him, so it made sense, at the time, to take it out on everyone else.

He’s still not over that instinct, but the _worst_ thing that Billy’s ever had to do is _this_:

He peels Harrington’s shirt up, over his chest, his shoulders. Harrington’s skin is cold in the air conditioning. Goosebumps rise on his flesh. Billy’s thumb drags across his nipple as he lifts it and Harrington gasps.

“Sorry,” Billy says, but he isn’t. He tosses the shirt off into the corner and then reaches out, undoing Harrington’s jeans, pulling the zipper down.

Harrington’s breathing is slow and shallow. Billy can feel it against his collarbone. “Billy,” Harrington says, and he steps forward.

“You’re just drunk,” Billy says, and he’s not sure who he’s trying to convince. He yanks the jeans down so fast that Harrington stumbles back, and he buys them both a little space. “Take your own boxers off,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair.

That’s when he remembers that his clothes are wet, too.

It seems impossible that he’d forgotten, but then it was hard to think about anything but Harrington in the moments after he dragged him out of the water. It hadn’t crossed his mind in the Camaro, because Billy was watching Harrington breathe. Up the stairs, down the hall, all he’d been thinking about was keeping Harrington upright, with how good it felt to have an arm around his waist.

And now Billy’s standing in his bedroom, and he’s undressed Harrington, and he’s soaking fucking wet.

He’s never felt like such a goddamn loser in his life. He laughs, and it’s bitter, and he understands what Harrington had been saying about the way he laughs. Here he is, standing in some boy’s bedroom, like there’s even the ghost of a possibility that they’re going to--

Like he wouldn’t _die_ if they did--

Like it wouldn’t be _everything_\--

Billy’s throat aches. He swallows down the taste of salt and turns away. “You got sweats I can borrow?” he asks, and he doesn’t feel _angry_ so much as he feels _sad_.

His hands are shaking.

On the bed, Harrington grunts. Billy glances at him and then makes his way across the room to the drawer that he’s pointed out. He strips out of his soggy shirt, his jeans, kicks off his shoes and socks. He yanks on a pair of sweats before he turns toward the bed and tosses a pair at Harrington, too.

“Where am I sleeping?” Billy asks.

Harrington doesn’t answer. He just scoots over in bed. Billy wonders what is dad would do if he knew that his son was walking across the room and crawling into bed next to Steve Harrington. He realizes he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter, anyway. Billy’s the only person in this bed who’s thinking what he’s thinking right now, even if he can feel the heat from Harrington’s skin, and he might as well be being _burned alive_ it feels so hot to him.

For a while, there’s silence in the dark little room in the huge dark house. Harrington’s breathing evens out, and Billy’s sure he’s sleeping. Billy doesn’t sleep. He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling until the light in the room changes.

He must sleep for a little while. He blinks his eyes open after what feels like seconds, and Harrington is sitting up next to him.

“You think I don’t see you,” Harrington says when Billy shifts.

“What?” Billy says.

“When you look at me. You think I don’t see you.”

The light is the fragile grey that comes before the dawn. Billy feels fragile, too, like if someone moves to fast, his sun might retreat, plunging them both into darkness. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says.

“Right,” Harrington says. “You don’t know you’re staring? At the pool?”

“It’s my _job_\--I--I’m a _lifeguard_\--”

“You stare at everyone as hard as you stare at me?” Harrington interrupts.

“No,” Billy says, before he can stop himself, and the honesty makes his tongue thick. He doesn’t say anything else.

Harrington’s quiet for so long that Billy’s halfway to afraid before he says, “Then you should do something about it, Billy.”

_Billy_.

There are so many suggestions in that sentence that Harrington can’t _possibly_ know what he’s asking for, what he’s saying should happen next.

“Billy,” Harrington says again. 

Billy sits up, wondering if he’s dreaming. This can’t be real. It can’t possibly be happening. He’s sitting up in Harrington’s bed. Maybe he’s the one who drowned the night before, he thinks, when Harrington turns to look at him. 

Billy can’t do anything except stare at Harrington for a long second. “Oh,” he says, quiet, a little careful. “Are you still drunk?”

“No,” Harrington says, leaning in close enough that Billy could count his eyelashes, even in this dark light.

“Okay,” Billy says, and then he leans in the rest of the way. The first brush of their lips is warm and soft and dry. It’s tentative. Billy’s fingers, when he lifts them to cup Harrington’s jaw, are still shaking, but Harrington’s lips part for him, and Billy deepens the kiss.

Even if he doesn’t totally know what’s happening, he knows how to do _this_, he thinks, sliding his fingers into Harrington’s hair.

When he pulls back, Harrington catches Billy’s lower lip with his teeth, and the move leaves Billy breathless.

You’re so fucking stupid,” Harrington says, and Billy’s read to pull back, to swing, to do _something_, except-- “How did you not see me _looking back_?”

Billy runs a hand through his own hair as he shifts, pushing Harrington back down onto the bed and settling across his hips. “I was watching the water,” Billy defends himself. “I’m a lifeguard. It’s my _job_.”

Harrington laughs at him so hard that Billy really has no choice but to kiss him again. How _else_ is he supposed to shut him up?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @lymricks
> 
> the title is from that Richard Siken poem that's perfect for everyone's ship, tbh.


End file.
